


this electric god that we both remade

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Episode: s05e02 SNAFU, F/M, First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Literal Sleeping Together, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-17 01:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14822747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: After the events of 5x02, Root and Harold take their flirting one step further.





	this electric god that we both remade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M_E_Lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_E_Lover/gifts).



After sitting together in the sun for a few hours, John and Lionel go off to their bowling thing, while Root and Finch carry the picnic basket back to the subway.

Root takes off her sneakers, lifts the girl scout sash over her head, dropping it on the floor by her bed. She’s asleep by the time her head hits the pillow.

When she’s conscious again, she notices a blanket draped over her that wasn’t there before. She doesn’t have to turn her head far to spot Harold, dozing in the chair beside the bed. Root lifts herself up on her elbows, peering out. Bear’s lying on the floor in front of the gates with his back to her, keeping guard on both of them. She makes a mental note to thoroughly comb the window glass out of his dog bed, if Harold hasn’t already done it.

Thinking of Harold seems to startle him. He sits up in the chair, rousing himself with a shudder. Noticing she’s awake makes him freeze in place, a finger quickly placed across his lips, reminding himself to be quiet. They look at each other in the low light. The floor lamp is switched off. There’s only the one on her bedside table, casting interesting patterns on the wall.

Harold slowly lowers his hand to his lap. He pitches his voice very soft. “I’m sorry. You looked so peaceful.”

Root snuggles back down, gets comfortable, tucking her toes inside the blanket. “It’s okay.” Her response is just as quiet.

Harold slides his palms down to his knees. He looks like he’s steeling himself to stand up, but his head is nodding.

“Have you even slept?”

The question prompts a wan smile. “I know I should go to Whistler’s apartment and sleep there, put in an appearance to test my cover, but I didn't want to leave you.”

Root stretches, yawns. “I'm fine. Better than, actually.”

“Your cochlear implant…”

“Hasn’t hurt me again. I don’t even have a migraine.”

Another weak smile. “I’m glad. Well, I should...” He gestures to the way out and Root’s heart suddenly sinks.

“Please don’t go.” She extricates a hand and pats the space beside her. “You can sleep here.”

Harold’s halfway out of the chair, leaning forward, his face a puzzled frown. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

Root shuffles over to be closer to the wall. “Come on, roomie. In your condition, I don’t want you wandering the streets alone. You might walk into traffic.”

He accepts this with a quirk of mouth and eyebrows, sets his glasses on the marble-topped, half-moon table. He moves the cushion from the chair to use as another pillow, then sits down and politely takes off his shoes.

Harold makes an appreciative, involuntary sound in his throat when he finally lays down.

Root chuckles. “I know. Feels good, doesn't it?”

“I’d forgotten what it’s like to be horizontal. My head’s spinning.” He presses the back of his hands over his eyes.

Root lifts a corner of the blanket and tries to flick it over him. But of course it’s caught around her toes. She kicks her leg out and their ankles bump. He lowers his left arm to help her tug at the cloth, until they’re both covered up.

Root gazes at the dingy ceiling, glimpses the tiled archways outside her tiny room. This feels like home, the way nowhere else ever has.

Beside her, Harold remarks: “It’s so very purple in here. I didn't know we shared a favorite color.”

Root turns her head and gapes at him, extremely pleased. “Harry! John’s been trying to find that out for as long as he’s known you.”

Harold’s eyes are closed, but his cheeks puff out in a drowsy smile. “If we’re going to die together in this war, knowing each other’s favorite colors is the least of our worries.”

“I’m going to tell him.” She teases.

“Be my guest.”

“Shaw’s is black, obviously. What’s John’s?”

Harold’s lower lip pops out in thought. “I’ve no idea. Grace is red…” He trails off.

Root remembers his earlier confession that he was seeing her on the monitors around New York. “There’s no reason she’d come back, Harold.”

“Oh, no, I know. I double checked with the Machine before we left for the park. She’s in Italy, she’s safe. It was just…wishful thinking, I suppose. Coming unstuck in time myself.”

“She’s your anchor,” Root agrees.

Harold curls his hand around Root’s wrist. Whether to thank her for understanding, or console her for managing without her own connection to the world, Root isn't sure.

She feels the blanket tug and realizes Harold is shifting over onto his side, to be able to look at her without twisting his neck. Once settled, he says: “It occurs to me I haven’t properly thanked you yet.”

“Oh?” Harold’s face looks extra vulnerable without his glasses. Root has a sudden urge to stroke the skin beneath his eyes with her thumbs. She doesn't move.

“For being here. Everything would already be lost without you. We would have lost the Machine. Samaritan would have won conclusively.”

Root smiles and nods. "It’s been nice, getting to rebuild her with you. Does it... “ She hesitates, remembering the Machine’s assessment of her past. “Does it in any way make up for some of the bad things I've done?"

Harold looks very serious when he takes her hand again. He squeezes it tight. "Yes. You saved the world."

This confirmation of his forgiveness warms Root immeasurably. She curls up into herself a little tighter, her bare leg brushing his.

His expression changes, becoming less earnest and more amused. "With Play-Stations."

She laughs outright. "A dream come true for a gamer girl," Root quips, and kisses him.

She intends on the cheek…but she doesn't regret missing her target, either. Harold’s lips are soft and slack against her own. Then he hums to himself and returns the pressure, slow and gentle. A goodnight kiss.

He’s asleep within moments. Root settles her head back on the pillows and watches him, her heart buoyed up by something undefinable.

\---

She must drift off herself, still holding his hand, because the next thing she’s aware of is Harold extricating his fingers. The bedside lamp is off now, but the blue lava lamp is still running. Harold is sitting up and slipping his feet back into his shoes. Root manages a noise of complaint, too sleepy for words. He pats her hip through the blanket as apology.

Harold carefully closes the velvet curtains, which hang between the sliding gates to her room. It’s only when she hears the whispered _“Vooruit”_ that Root understands why he has to leave: Bear must need to find a lamppost.

She listens for the gate at the foot of the stairs and the door at the top. Harold does his best to be quiet but the hinges are rusty.

On the table, the liquid bubbles in the blue lamp drift and separate and collide. The slow-motion impact reminds her too late that she should have gone outside with Harold to protect him. Bear is with him, but…Root stops watching the lava lamp and shifts in the bed to face the ceiling. Her shirt feels tight around her shoulders, it has become slightly twisted up beneath her. She sits up for just long enough to strip it off, letting it drop to the floor over her head. Flopping back down, that leaves her in just her skirt and bra and underwear. Hands smoothing over the crisp wide pleats of the skirt, Root unhooks it at the waist. Cooler air sneaks in and that’s when she notices…between her legs, she’s wet. She hasn't had time to think about anything but the Machine these past few weeks, and she hasn't dreamt about Shaw in far too long. Could it be Harold’s proximity in the bed which caused this? Or does her body just need attention?

Into her underwear, Root pushes two fingers, one either side of her clit. They slide freely, so she rotates them, circling around and arching her hips when pleasure trickles upwards from the base of her spine. Her free hand drifts upwards to play with her hair, her nails lightly catching at the strands. She thinks of Shaw’s ponytail tangled between her fingers. She thinks of Harold’s hand resting briefly on her hip. Her fingers move around and around her clit, before sliding down and pressing inside. Her knees fall apart, heartbeat quickening. Her nails drag over the spongy surface of her g-spot and up over the smoothness of her center, all the way to her clit in a continuous motion. In and out, picking up speed then slowing down, the movement gets slightly noisier the wetter she becomes. That, plus her gasps echoing off the subway's tiles. After bringing herself off, she sucks the taste of herself from her fingers then wipes them on the sheet.

She hears Harold's uniquely uneven footsteps on the stairs. Root can’t resist a tempting moan, for his benefit. It's entirely his choice what he does with the information, but she hopes he'll join her.

She lies in bed and listens, tugging her underwear back up but doing nothing else to cover herself.

There's movement somewhere outside her makeshift room. Bear's collar makes a familiar noise as he presumably shakes rainwater from his fur. In Dutch, Harold quietly tells Bear to relax but stay where he is. Limping footfalls, approaching...

Then nothing happens for a while. Root can feel him standing there, frozen in indecision.

Never really one for over-thinking, she throws a cushion at the curtains. They part to let it fly through. He startles at the sudden projectile in the dark.

"You shouldn't lurk, Harold," Root tells him. There's nothing admonishing in her tone.

Harold's turning and bending down to pick it up. He hasn't looked her way yet.

Root sits up on the edge of the bed and sees it's her bat-shaped pillow. She makes an amused mental note that it flies pretty well.

"Are you alright? I heard noises." And then there are no more words from him. He swallows audibly, and there's a soft thump as the stuffed plush bat drops back to the floor from his lax hand, but he can't speak. In better light, she'd probably see his eyes wide as saucers. Instead there's just a glint of blue off the corner of his glasses, from the lamp.

He's clearly too shocked to move, so Root stands and goes to him. One hand finds Harold's jaw, thumb stroking his smooth cheek. The other settles on his shoulder, raindrops crushed beneath her palm. She looks into his eyes fondly and feels his arms wrap around her reverently, as though in a dream. His hands splay across her lower back. His fingertips tremble for a moment, then seem to settle. She meets him halfway in a kiss that leaves them both breathless. It's not like the sleepy chaste kiss from before. Harold's not polite about capturing her tongue with his, drawing it into his own mouth to tease and suck. But his hands don't wander, and when they break apart for air he ducks his head to give her a moment, before folding her into a hug.

Now Root's the one speechless, leaning her body against him, holding on tight. She doesn't know how he goes from deer-in-headlights to calmly self-controlled like that, but she's seen him do it before in other situations. They're both processing at their own speeds. Root's never expected to enjoy kissing a guy, but as ever Harold's the exception who proves the rule.

Continuing to hold her, Harold kisses Root's hair, seemingly at random. Then his hand on the back of her head lifts a section of her hair out of the way, and she realizes he's found the scar behind her deaf ear, where Control cut her, where the cochlear implant lives now. He doesn't say a word while his lips lightly graze her there, but she gets the message loud and clear: _Thank you for the sacrifices you've had to make._

He lets go of her then, but as he turns to one side there's a glancing pressure at her hip, tangible evidence of his interest. If she was wet before...Root presses her thighs together and goes up on her toes, wondering if he'd be able to carry her if she swung her legs up. Probably not, but it's a nice thought. She grabs hold of the knot of his tie.

Harold glances down at her hand. "Am I correct in understanding you don't wish to stop there?"

She laughs weakly and flattens her hand, smoothing it down his chest. "Don't you dare leave me like this."

He tangles their fingers together. "In that case...shall we? You'll have to forgive me, it's been a long time."

She deliberately misunderstands him. "You're forgiven. We're on the same side now."

They are only a few strides from her bed, carrying wouldn't have been worth it. And this way Root gets to undress him and push him down on his back. His spiky soft hair is still damp from the short walk in the rain, and Root is glad he's not wearing a vest, because it's one less layer between her and skin.

For this part he's passive, letting her take charge, helping when prompted. They've been living together underground for a while now but Root still hasn't seen much of his body, given that he wears his suits like armor and only occasionally undoes a top button or rolls up his sleeves. His shoulders and biceps are stronger than they look when hidden away. She can't see his scars clearly in the light of the lava lamp but she finds them by feel and commits them to memory.

Just like with his suits, Harold wears his body well. Men with furry chests have never done it for her before, but there's something endearing about Harold's, as though his body has constructed one last line of defence. She straddles his soft tummy and lets her mouth explore, winds up sucking at his nipples as they tighten for her. Harold's breaths are quick and shallow, his mouth hanging open, gasping and sighing and murmuring affectionate entreaties (or what the Machine might term 'gentle exhortations to further action'). Root can't help but realize that he's totally at her mercy.

Years ago, when they first met, she would have used this vulnerability, used _him_ , for a greater purpose. And perhaps she's not entirely reformed, because Root thinks maybe she still can. For the sake of the Machine.

She brings her face close to his. "Promise me something."

"I'll try my hardest not to die." Harold answers quickly and lightly, with an undercurrent to his voice which reveals his impatience, his urgent need.

She rewards his quick thinking with a quick kiss. "Good. But that's not what I meant."

He groans. "Root. Please don't make me guess."

Root strokes the cleft in his chin.“Say ‘please’ again. Beg me.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He visibly struggles with himself before making a decision. “I won’t.”

Root is delighted. She does like a challenge. “So stubborn,” she says, and rolls off of him.

She sits on the bed by his legs, rests a hand on his thigh. Pins Harold’s hand against the mattress when he moves to touch himself, in a futile bid to end things on his own terms.

“Root. What is it?”

“The open system.”

A disbelieving huff of breath. “You want to talk about this _now_?”

“You promised, Harold. Not to shackle her again. Then you went back on it after you restarted the Numbers.”

“In the park, I said let’s leave it open.”

“ _'For the time being.'_ ” She echoes his words back to him. “I want forever. Or at least until Samaritan is dead.”

Root leisurely circles the crown of his dick with her thumb. Harold shudders and leans into her hand.

"Promise me, and you can come." Root says simply.

“I have…reservations. And I don’t value orgasms that highly.”

Root purses her lips and blows a stream of air over his sensitive skin. It twitches, straining for release. “Are you sure about that? You said it had been a while. How many more chances do you think you’ll get?”

Harold glares. “Did you plan this…entire thing?” He sounds really hurt, and Root’s heart drops a little.

“Hey, it wasn’t like that. I just thought, while I have your attention…” She wraps her hand around him, gives some long firm strokes.

She's not sure she wants a cock in her mouth, not even for him, but from the way he’s reacting to every touch, her hand is more than enough.

She takes him to what she thinks is the edge, then takes her hand away.

Harold’s chest keeps rising and falling rapidly. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. It can’t be that much fun for you.”

“Oh, I’m having fun. It helps that I already came, before.”

Harold actually whines. “Would you just let me…?”

“Prepared to beg, yet?”

“You demand so much from me at once.”

She alternates a flurry of fast strokes with a few slower ones. Harold cries out at the stimulation, then bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Root wants to lick it up.

Instead, she tells him: “I trust you with my life. Trust yourself not to go mad with power, and trust The Machine to win.”

Harold takes this on board and then draws a shaky breath, gathering himself to speak. "I promise. I won't let her down again. Or you."

Root smiles down at him, victorious, then her grin turns wicked and she lets him come.

\---

Harold’s fingers are wider than hers. They open her up further, rubbing around and around inside. He also has a better angle, can reach deeper because he doesn't have to flex his wrist.

He's not ruthless like Shaw, but what's missing of cruelty he makes up for in creativity. When he switches hands and flicks at her clit with his fingernail, Root finds herself coming again.

\---

Afterwards, they snuggle up under the blanket again, shivering with cooling sweat, tingling and pleasantly sore all over. Root likes being the big spoon, and Harold is surprisingly okay with that.

They have a long road ahead of them. But they've already travelled so far together. And for now, they can sleep.


End file.
